


Twisted Wires

by TiggyMalvern



Series: Bad Connections [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s02e09 Shiizakana, Fresh Meat Friday, Hannibal Advent, Heavily Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: Takes place during Shiizakana, roughly a week after Bad Connections. Will has decided that sexual involvement with Hannibal was a bad idea...





	Twisted Wires

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [youweresoafraid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/YouWereSoAfraid) and [goldenusagi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenUsagi/pseuds/GoldenUsagi) for beta duties.

The dinner Hannibal serves is exquisite, small rounds of meat arcing across the china, crowning the fan of asparagus. The sauce is rich and lightly spiced, tingling over his tongue. 

It’s delicious.

He doesn’t ask for details. Hannibal might keep to their arrangement not to lie to him.

They eat to the soft background of Bach’s partitas and the occasional crackle of a log in the fire, and Will keeps his attention on his plate. It’s somehow easier to look at his food than the man across the table. 

“This beast you are hunting, Will.” He looks up to meet his host’s eyes when Hannibal finally speaks, because okay, work is good, he can deal with that. They’ve been talking about the case for two days now; it actually helps. “Have you experienced living inside his head?” Hannibal holds his gaze and asks lower, softer, “Have you allowed him inside yours?”

He stabs into another chunk of his meat. It’s rare in the centre, pink with just a hint of blood. “I don’t have to.” Not any more. “I already know how he thinks, why he does what he does.” He knows more than that. He knows how the thrill ripples through him when he stops hiding, when he unleashes his potential, becomes the killer he was designed to be.

He slides the food from his fork and chews slowly; the meat is tender, almost disintegrating between his teeth, and Hannibal’s stare drops to his throat when he swallows. “Jack tells me you know who he is.”

Hannibal’s chin lifts, just barely, but Will sees it. “I told Jack I had a patient many years ago who fits the profile.”

Will settles a little further back in his seat and smiles. “I thought you weren’t going to lie to me again, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal inclines in head in gentle acknowledgement. “When I spoke with Jack, I couldn’t be certain that my former patient was in fact the killer.”

Will’s lips part wider, confidence settling through his limbs. “And now you are.”

“Further information has since come to light.” Hannibal’s head angles to the right, a hint of curiosity. “Is that why you came here tonight? To discover his identity?”

Will raises his wine glass, and gestures lightly towards his plate. “I came because you extended an invitation to dinner.”

“I wasn’t sure you would accept.” Hannibal’s lips stay parted, breathing between them, a suggestion of teeth and tongue in the firelight. “Our meetings have been exclusively professional of late.”

Will takes a slow sip of his wine, accepting Hannibal’s direct gaze as he draws the alcohol over his tongue and swallows. He can’t exactly deny it. It’s been obvious enough. 

He’s talked with Hannibal at Quantico and at crime scenes. He’s seen him at his office, because he couldn’t cut off all contact and wreck the plan, and within that space Hannibal has predictably respected the conventional boundaries. 

He’s even been in the Bentley once, when they went to confront Peter, and Ingram, and after… everything that played out there, he asked Jack to arrange a car to take him home.

“We’ve been friends for long enough,” he says, projecting over the soaring violin. “Why wouldn’t we stay friendly?”

Hannibal can hardly miss the significance of the word choice, but he’s never been dissuaded by Will’s verbal barriers, and he leans forward now, with the beginnings of a smile. “Since you did accept, I wondered if you might stay a little longer, after dinner.”

 _The odour of wet wool coat and his own come thick in the moist air, Hannibal’s hands on his skin, his own hands on Hannibal, their eyes locked together in breath and knowledge while he strokes him to orgasm._ “Letting things stray beyond the bounds of colleagues was a mistake,” he says, and the truth of it’s unavoidable, even when the memory’s vibrant and heavy in his head and his dick’s swelling in his pants.

Hannibal’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s displeasure in the still lines of his shoulders. “I was under the impression we both found it to be enjoyable.”

Will quirks his lip. “I was under the impression you had an arrangement in place with Alana.”

Hannibal’s head tilts a fraction, the comfortingly familiar tell of his curiosity. “Does that bother you?”

Will takes another slow sip of his wine. “It would bother Alana.”

Hannibal’s mouth stretches, something that borders on a smile. “So it does bother you.”

“She’s my friend, Hannibal.” A twist in his guts as he says it, because she is still his friend, a friend who no longer trusts him, and speaks with barbs.

Hannibal’s eyebrows lift, his eyes widening. “Is she? Or are you simply disinclined to share?”

And Will lets his smirk spread across his face, because Hannibal’s given him the perfect opening to slam the brakes on this conversation, hard. “If my intention was only to end your sexual liaisons with Alana, I could fuck you right now, leave marks and bruises on your skin that wouldn’t fade for a week,” he states with lazy confidence. “I’m sure that would be an effective deterrent the next time she joined you for dinner.”

Hannibal’s lips part just enough for Will to see a hint of tongue slide forwards and then retreat.

He’s not offended by Will’s crude choice of words, or the presumption behind it. He _likes_ the idea. 

Oh, god, he’d let him do it.

Will resists the urge to shift in his chair with the fresh surge of blood to his cock, keeps his eyes fixed on Hannibal’s face as he waits for a more considered, verbal response.

Hannibal raises his own glass, swirls the blood-dark wine around the bowl and holds Will’s gaze above the rim. “If I terminate my physical relationship with Alana, would you be inclined to continue ours?”

Will’s pulse staggers and then hammers in his throat. 

Continuing would be insane. He’s known that since the Bentley, since his moment of twisted revelation and precipitate desire. Continuing takes him further from the boundaries of his own control, and he already left those far behind in a horse barn with a gun in his hand. 

He can erase Alana’s potential as a pawn, remove her from the board. Separate her from Hannibal, and keep her safe. 

This game is his to risk his life in. She doesn’t even know she’s playing.

He smiles slow and inviting, his fingers sliding along the stem of his glass. “I’m sure you can find a way to do it without appearing rude.”

Hannibal smiles too, a huff of air sounding his rare, genuine amusement, and he moves to finish the last couple of bites of his food. When his plate’s clear, he stands and quietens the music, picking up the phone from the mantel, and Will settles back into his chair to watch the performance, keeping the slight curve to his lips while it rings.

“Hello, Alana.”

Will can’t make out what she says, but the enthusiasm of her response carries, tones bright and flirtatious.

“I’ve considered you my friend for many years, Alana.” Hannibal’s talking to her, but his eyes sear into Will’s as he paraphrases his words. “I would very much like us to continue our friendship, but I don’t believe there can be a long term future for us beyond that. It seems only fair that I should let you know.”

 _Oh, shit._

Hannibal wasn’t supposed to ditch her right now. He was supposed to invite her to lunch and tell her in person. The chair back digs sharp against Will’s spine under the gravity of Hannibal’s stare, because this is going to happen, and he needs to figure out how to work with it, how to use it to his advantage. He needs to _think._

Alana’s voice is quieter now, a whispered suggestion of words from the phone. 

Hannibal sighs, his tone soft and considerate. “I find I’m something of a romantic at heart, and perhaps unreasonably idealistic. You are intelligent and attractive, Alana, and I’m always pleased by your company, but I cannot help thinking if our relationship was based upon more than a mutual fondness, it would have flared into life a long time ago.”

Alana talks for longer this time, and Hannibal lets her speak, thoughtful and courteous until she falls silent, and his eyes keep a fierce grip on Will throughout.

“I have no wish to be hurtful, but I prefer to be honest with my friends. I am… investigating the possibility of a relationship with another person.”

Her voice rises in a question, short and to the point.

“Yes.”

Sharp again, and interrogative.

“I prefer my private life to be private, Alana, and you were appreciative of that consideration. I don’t believe their identity is relevant to our conversation.”

She must concede on that, because she softens again, and so does Hannibal’s reply. “Perhaps that would be for the best. I want you to know that I’m here as your friend, should you find yourself in need of one.”

There are only a few more words before the final, “Good night, Alana,” and Hannibal ends the call.

He replaces the phone on the charger before he turns to Will. “Does that fulfil your requirements?”

Will looks up at him, curious. “You told her the truth.”

There’s a subtle shift to Hannibal’s features that might almost be offence. “To my knowledge, Alana has never been less than entirely honest with me.”

Will takes another sip of wine that doesn’t soothe the teeth in the words, the bite of a logic that Hannibal hadn’t ever applied to him, when he’d needed so badly to trust. “Some people would consider handling that conversation over the phone rather than in person to be intrinsically rude.”

Hannibal allows the point with a slow nod. “I would consider it more discourteous to disappoint a guest whom I had invited into my home with certain expectations.”

Will’s mouth quirks at one corner. “You believe I came here with expectations?”

“Your new aftershave is a notable improvement, Will, a scent I find far more pleasing on you than your usual choice. Though it doesn’t completely mask the aroma of low level arousal that has clung to you since you arrived.”

His arousal’s not so low level now, and Hannibal must know that too; he’s just too polite to point it out. 

Hannibal restarts the music then leans in to take Will’s empty plate with a deliberate brush along his sleeve that hitches his breath, and there’s a thrumming emptiness the violin can’t fill when he pulls back and walks through to the kitchen.

Will drains the rest of his wine while Hannibal’s gone and maintaining a veneer of elegance doesn’t factor in. 

He’s going to have sex with Hannibal. Here, tonight. 

The gaping disconnect between his brain and his cock is intellectually intriguing and viscerally unsettling.

Hannibal comes back with two smaller plates and accompanying glasses of dessert wine. “Torta de Santiago,” he announces as he places it in front of Will, “a traditional Galician dessert made with almonds.”

There’s an elaborate cross precisely outlined by the absence of frosting on top of his cake, and Will only knows one Santiago in Spain. “A dessert for pilgrims, seeking St James.”

“I believe that most pilgrims are in actuality seeking themselves, whether wittingly or not.” Hannibal’s still looking at Will when he slices through the centre of his own cake, severing the cross. “A saint or other religious symbol offers a culturally acceptable excuse to take time away from labour and routine to spend in contemplation, while they explore their limits and expand their possibilities.”

Will’s mouth curls at the edges, smiling with closed lips. “A symbol of personal growth, then.”

“Perhaps even a celebration of self-knowledge and acceptance.” Hannibal lifts his glass, examining the colours of the wine in the firelight. “I visited the Museum of Natural History earlier this evening. It was most enlightening, if a significantly shorter journey than most pilgrimages. You might consider going there yourself.”

The museum’s on winter hours, and Hannibal saw patients till six. “Their technical staff are highly skilled with model-making and display work,” Will says, and Hannibal’s lips stretch and thin into a smile.

“Indeed they are.” 

Will looks briefly down to his plate, slicing a neat piece from his cake with the edge of his fork. It’s moist and just sweet enough without being cloying, notes of cinnamon beneath the signature almonds. The wine is sweeter still, chilled in a further contrast to the food, the glass cold against his fingers.

There’s no more conversation during dessert. Will doesn’t feel like forcing words, and Hannibal appears content to sit and watch, his eyes never leaving Will for a moment; eyes that glow amber with the remnants of the fire, holding Will’s gaze, only to drop to his lips with each forkful of cake he shapes his mouth around. 

Will’s attention strays to Hannibal’s hands, surgeon’s hands, every movement precise and controlled, each piece cut from his food evenly sized and deftly manipulated. _His hand moves skilled and perfect on Will’s cock, the grip and slide around him as he spirals towards orgasm, the heat of his touch exquisite below the clinging chill of his shirt –_

The dessert’s as delicious as dinner was, but he’s not fully appreciating the taste. Its flavour is altered in the environment of Will’s mouth, dry and metallic with adrenaline. Will’s so fucking hard, and he chews and swallows slow and deliberate, lengthening the tension and anticipation that shrieks through their silence, and when he’s done and sets the fork down on his empty plate with the chink of finality, he has no more idea how he’s going to get through this.

Hannibal stands, and Will does too, because he’ll help clear the plates for another moment’s reprieve, and Hannibal stops him with a hand on his arm. 

There’s a faint flush along his cheekbones that Will’s never seen on him from wine. He imagines stretching out his hand to touch and run fingers along the lines of his face, sees himself leaning in to kiss those dampened lips, feels them part beneath his to take his tongue.

His choice to use sex to influence Hannibal and his own desire for more of him are… poorly compatible. He learned that in the Bentley.

He’s still standing there, unmoving and unmissably turned-on as his vision of them together scatters, and Hannibal breaks the tableau. “Will you join me upstairs, Will?”

Upstairs. Into the bedroom. The bedroom where Hannibal slept with Alana, and the moment he walks in he’ll see images of her stretched out across the sheets, smiling while Hannibal touches and kisses her. In the bed, where they’ll end up naked and intertwined, and it will be that much harder to avoid staying the night.

He lifts his eyebrows and tilts his chin. “That’s a surprisingly conventional choice.”

Hannibal smiles, and his eyes are inviting and bottomless depths. “You suggested a rather detailed scenario you wished to enact.”

Hannibal’s really going to let him fuck him. God, he _wants_ him to fuck him. “I didn’t specify a location,” he says, drawing challenge through every syllable. He can’t do this with Hannibal staring at him the way he did in the Bentley, like he did in the stables, close and intense and touching, he can’t. He hooks his foot round the leg of the chair next to his own, and drags it away, the scrape of wood on wood harsh over the softly sweeping violin. “I’ve been thinking about you bent over this table since we sat down to dinner.”

His heart’s thumping fast and heavy, and his cock throbs harder with every pulse of blood. 

There’s a beat, just one, before Hannibal’s fingers move to the buttons of his jacket and the waistcoat beneath. “Exploration of sexual fantasies in a safe environment can be both healthy and enlightening,” he says, and he slides free of the arms, his shirt pulling taut across his chest as he arches back. 

“It’s not a fantasy, more of an interesting idea,” Will asserts. It wasn’t a fantasy five minutes ago, but it’s fast becoming one.

Hannibal reaches into the inner pocket before he folds the jacket precisely over the back of a chair, and when he turns he’s offering Will a pack of condoms and a travel-sized tube of lubricant. “You may want these.”

Will looks up from his hand to raise his eyebrows at him. “Do you always keep a range of sexual supplies in your jacket, Doctor?”

“I didn’t have anything available in the car last week,” Hannibal says. “After that, it seemed prudent.”

It was, and if Will had intended on taking this further, he’d have done the same. 

His hard-on’s full of intent now, and his fingers brush over Hannibal’s palm when he takes the condom box. He checks the size, and of course they’ll fit, because Hannibal’s seen him erect, run his hands all over the length and girth of him, and pulled him to desperate, greedy orgasm.

Hannibal steps into the space left by the chair and leans forward, his hands flat on the table to support his weight. He turns his head to look back at Will over his shoulder, and his shirt stretches over his spine. “In this interesting idea of yours, do you undress me yourself or do I strip for you?”

Will flashes to a decade ago, and he’s a Louisiana cop, Hannibal standing spread like he’s waiting to be patted down; he sees himself jerking his arms around to cuff him, and he pulls back into the present before his imagination chooses whether he’s planning to arrest him or fuck him. 

“I do it.” He doesn’t know how far Hannibal stripping would go, and he prefers to have him mostly clothed, considering what they’re about to do. The less he sees, the less detail there’ll be to linger in his mind, to slither through his dreams. There’s already too much of Hannibal surfacing there.

He sets the condoms on the table and moves to stand behind him, a layer of air left hanging between them, and he reaches around to Hannibal’s belt. _Dim light and humid warmth, his chilled fingers snatching and tugging at the buckle, greedy to break through and touch –_

He’s less frantic now; he’s still hungry, he still _wants_ , and he’ll be frustrated as hell if this doesn’t happen, but he’s clearer in his head, and he knows where to set his lines. The leather’s supple, flexing easily as he frees it from the prong and unthreads it, and when his hands move to the buttons, he’s brushing over Hannibal’s erection, taut and full beneath the cloth.

He closes his eyes, giving in to the temptation to grip him, to know the desire flooding between them, and Hannibal exhales slow and languid while his cock jumps to his fingers. The cashmere wool blend of his suit is soft over his hardness, and Will’s stroking him, drifting in the pleasure of it.

“This would be better without clothes,” Hannibal says, and Will’s eyes spring open to find Hannibal’s, wide black pupils in a ring of reflected fire.

Carnality surges through him with Hannibal’s expression and prominent autonomic responses, and Will grins, open-mouthed with teeth. “Feeling impatient, Doctor?”

“Impatience would have meant missing dessert.” Hannibal twists his neck around further, lips curving in the moment of humour. “We both understand what we want, and we share the urge to take it.” And he shifts his hips, eliminating the gap, his ass brushing against Will’s cock through the layers of cloth.

He doesn’t grind himself back and cross the line into crude, the contact kept light and brief, but it’s more than enough to precipitate Will’s lust, a giddy surge of expectation, of _more_. And he’s the one pressing closer now, hands working at buttons and peeling away fabric, grasping pants and underwear together as he pulls down, exposing the pale skin and taut muscles of Hannibal’s ass to the glow of the fire.

He drags further over the sparse hair on his thighs, and his hands are on Hannibal’s body again, and he can smell him again, his sweat and the musky scent of a man who’s so very aroused, who’s been that way for a while, and Will knows that when he slides his hand around to Hannibal’s cock, he’ll find him damp and sticky with want. 

Wanting Will. Not Alana, not another acceptable substitute, only Will.

And Will wants Hannibal, wants to take him, to control him, to push him down and fuck him, to _show_ him what it is to be used.

He lifts one hand from Hannibal’s thigh, rests it between his shoulder blades with only a hint of pressure. “When I was imagining this, you were stretched out flat, with your face on the table.” 

A pause, a second, and Hannibal’s legs spread wider to make the height adjustment as he lowers and settles against the polished wood; right now he’ll do _anything_ Will asks him for, and the knowledge throbs in Will’s cock with every jump of his pulse.

And suddenly Will’s rushing, his hands moving to his own clothes, to open them, to free himself, and Hannibal stays there, sprawled out, untouched, and asks, “Are there any other details I should conform to?”

Will huffs out a quick breath as his hands reach his own erection and says, “I’ll let you know as we go,” because he’s making this up on the fly. His pants are down and the air’s warm on his cock, and he breaks open the condom box and puts one aside in its individual wrapper. Reaches for the lube, flipping open the top, and he pauses – 

This is complex, and he’s manipulating him, but he doesn’t want to _hurt_ him. Hannibal’s the sadist here; Will’s not.

He squeezes lube out onto his hand, slides his wetted fingers between Hannibal’s cheeks, rubbing lightly over the hole and feeling him quiver at the chill of it, but he doesn’t press. “I assume you’re familiar with this, since you agreed to it.”

“In the generalities, very much so,” Hannibal confirms. He slants his gaze Will’s way, though in this position he can’t meet his eyes. “In the specifics of tonight, you’ve proven yourself to be constantly unpredictable in ways that I find most refreshing.”

And okay, that’s more or less what Will’s been assuming. He doesn’t see Hannibal as a man who likes to cede control often, or without a good deal of thought and calculation. But he can see eighteen-year-old Hannibal in Paris as a sexual experimenter, indulging every available form of sensation and pleasure. He doesn’t imagine he stayed a virgin in any sense of the word for long.

He brushes past once more, then pushes a fingertip inside, feeling Hannibal twitch reflexively around him as he circles and explores within the heat. Will focusses on the details, because it’s easier not to think, not to think of anything outside the minutiae of what he’s doing and the anticipation of burying his cock into this warmth.

“Is this okay?” He’s not feeling anything from Hannibal that says it’s not, but he has to ask.

Hannibal’s voice rumbles low and softly enticing. “I would prefer more.” 

Will’s happy to oblige with another finger, and deeper, pressing down to rub over Hannibal’s prostate, and Hannibal inhales and blinks slow. Will feels himself inhaling too, a shadow, an echo of pleasure. “Tell me to stop if anything’s too much.”

“I’ll make that promise, but I very much doubt I’ll need it.” Hannibal’s rougher and breathier beneath the humour when he speaks now, his accent heavy and clipped with a direct line to Will’s cock; he wants all of this, all the way, and he barely knows if that’s his own thought or Hannibal’s, because at this point they’re the same.

His other hand’s on Hannibal, on his ass, stroking over his nakedness while he stretches him, muscles firm and defined as he opens around Will’s fingers. “Any time you’re ready, Will,” he says, and it’s almost a hum, and Will was ready before Hannibal brought out dessert. He’s reaching for the wrapper and tearing it open to roll the condom slowly along his erection, _careful, don’t tug_ , and slicking more lube around the head, and then he’s pressing in, in, in, and he doesn’t pause and he won’t ask again, because Hannibal will tell him if he needs to stop. And there’s no stop, there’s only the two of them breathing and connecting with a hint of a shiver, until there’s nothing left of him outside and Hannibal’s tight all around him.

Will has to hold, wait, clutching at Hannibal’s hips, steady his lust and his mind, his chest heaving in the need for air.

He hasn’t had full-on sex in… some time. He doesn’t really know when. He gave up trying to date and act normal a few years back, because it never convinced anybody, and one night stands are always awkward and mostly unsatisfying.

His short encounter with Hannibal in the car last week was neither. Not until after, when his reason caught up with what his body sought.

“I’m fine, Will,” Hannibal says, misinterpreting the reason for the pause. “In fact, I’m considerably better than fine.”

Will wishes he’d just stop talking. He doesn’t want to hear the smile in him, doesn’t want the ripple of desire that shivers through every muscle at that silken voice. 

He grips Hannibal’s neck beneath the fall of his hair, pushing his head down to the table, so he can’t look at him.

He can do this without losing any more of himself. 

And Will starts to move, slow, starts to fuck him, because that’s probably the best way to keep him from talking. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to listen, he only wants to feel, and to do it without feeling, because he can’t let himself enjoy this, fall into it and relish it, and he knows he might. He doesn’t need eye contact to read Hannibal, to know him, not when he can hear the catch in his breath when he thrusts in, when he’s tight inside his body and feeling him quiver.

His eyes drift closed, his mouth open barely enough to let the air flow; his cock’s sliding through the most exquisite, gripping heat, steady and rhythmic, and the sensations envelop his mind just as keenly. The physicality of it, the instinctive motion, the tension through his glutes each time he pushes, it’s all amazing, and he doesn’t want it to stop, doesn’t want to rush this to the end, because it’s so much better to not be thinking. Then Hannibal’s muscles tense through his neck and shoulders beneath Will’s hand, and he presses back, sudden, hard onto Will’s cock, and Will’s eyes snap open as his cadence is shattered, Hannibal’s ass arching up against his pelvis.

“For someone who expressed a desire to leave me bearing your marks, you’re being surprisingly careful.” Hannibal sounds insufferably amused and smug for someone who’s being played, who’s being fucked in every sense over his own immaculate table, held down between the plates and wine glasses, and Will sees movement in the corner of his eye, a shape that shifts hunched and shadowed in the firelight.

He looks down again and Hannibal’s body has darkened, blackened, antlers stretching jagged across the span of the table, and there’s a swell of anger burning up through Will’s blood. Anger at Hannibal for being who he is, anger at himself for _wanting_ who he is, and he lets it surge, lets the rage heat him as it spreads, because it’s better and safer than anything it replaces.

The violin speeds, leaping scratchily across its range, and his fingers tighten at Hannibal’s nape, squeezing down even as he morphs back into a man, into pale hair and skin. He can slide his hand around Hannibal’s neck to grip at his throat, remembers Hannibal suggesting it as he half-crouched, half-splayed over him in the car ( _“I might not even pull away.”_ ). And it doesn’t help, keeping Hannibal from looking, because he knows the impact of that stare, knows it even from his own fucking _dreams_ , Hannibal twisted in rope and watching him and talking to him about love and beloveds before Will _killed_ him, and he really fucking _wants_ to kill him, wants it as much as he wants anything from him. 

His fingers are right there, creeping to Hannibal’s windpipe, stroking over the cartilage ridges before they start to clutch and tighten, and he snatches his hand back and slams his palm down between Hannibal’s shoulder blades, forcing the air from his lungs in a sharp huff. Will leans his weight in, keeping him pinned, and Hannibal’s chest heaves beneath his hand, beneath the fine, wrinkled cotton separating them, sucking in a breath that stretches through his ribs, but he’s not fighting; he stays down against the table and takes it. And he’ll take more, he’ll take all of it because Will’s moving again, faster this time, harder, shoving his hips forward and his cock deep inside until he’s panting with the effort, and Hannibal’s sliding over the wood with the force of it.

His empathy tangles with his imagination, and he’s Hannibal, breathing through the press of his shirt buttons into his skin as Will fucks into him from behind, and he’s himself, fingers curling and clutching against the table while he’s fucked, while Hannibal fucks him, oh god, and it all feels the same, fucking Hannibal, being fucked, it’s all incredible, all building, with every thrust of his hips and every scrape of his cheekbone over the polished table, and he comes with his nails digging bruises over the bone of Hannibal’s pelvis and his cock buried all the way into him.

And then he slides back into himself, to Hannibal’s ribs pressing into his hand through the shirt every time he inhales, audible through parted lips, to Hannibal’s ass squeezing around him, forcibly seeking sensation. It’s the second time in two encounters that Will’s come first, come too eager and too soon, and he’d be embarrassed about it, but really, he just fucked a serial killer, so it’s slid a ways down the scale of things he’s going to get stressed over. 

“Just… I’ll…” But he still doesn’t want to talk, and he reaches down between Hannibal’s hips and the table edge to find his erection. It settles into his fingers, familiar, warm and thick and damp with pre-come, foreskin sliding easily, just as he remembers from the car, and from his dreams. Will lifts his other hand from Hannibal’s back, easing the pressure, and Hannibal moves with him, into his grip, matching his rhythm with low breathy sounds as he shifts around Will’s cock, not enough to make him over-sensitive, just really… nice. And he knows the feel of him, the slight swell and twitch of his cock when he’s about to come, and he’s back in the Bentley with their eyes locked and faces close, watching and sharing when he lets go, and the warmth of semen on his fingers is real now as Hannibal pulses and quivers against him.

The music’s seeping in again past the edge of Will’s awareness, the notes of the violin low and soothing now, melancholic, and Will just stays and listens with his cock inside Hannibal and his hand wet with come, because he can’t face him, he can’t touch him. 

He can’t just pull out and leave him splayed there, dishevelled and leaking lube, an unforgivable way to treat a (lover, partner, fuck-buddy), and Will almost laughs as his brain spirals through the ridiculous list, because nobody made a word for whatever the hell this is. And he has to pull out, and soon, before his cock softens more and he loses the condom, but when he moves, he’ll have to make a choice.

“There are tissues in the dresser to the right of the fireplace,” Hannibal says, and that’s good, because it wouldn’t seem right to go smearing semen onto the embroidered linen napkins. He grips the condom at the base, holding it with him as he eases out of the perfect warmth and sidles over to the cupboard, his pants flapping loose round his thighs. 

He has his clean hand free to open the door and retrieve the box, and he peels off the condom, wrapping it in one tissue, using others to wipe off his cock and his fingers. He arranges himself inside his underwear and zips up his pants so he can walk back to the table with something like dignity, as much as a guy clutching a handful of come-coated tissues and a rubber can gather.

He puts the box on the table next to Hannibal, but he’s saying, “Wait, I’ll…” and he takes another himself, cleaning the dripping lube from Hannibal’s thigh and the crack of his ass, because there’s something bitter like guilt crawling in his stomach, and he’s not even sure if it’s there because he fucked a killer and liked it, or if it runs deeper.

Hannibal’s grabbed a tissue for himself and he’s dabbing at his own cock. When Will steps back, Hannibal straightens and starts to rearrange his clothes. There’s a flicker across his face as he sees the streaks of come on the floorboards beneath the table, but he ignores the mess for now, gathering up the soiled tissues to dispose of. Will makes a show of fastening his belt, something to do with his eyes and hands, the buckle shining with the embers of the fire.

“Would you care for another drink, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will’s gaze snaps back to him. “An Hierbas liqueur would be traditional after the torta, or alternatively I have an excellent selection of Scotch.” It’s not a bruise, but there’s a vivid mark along his cheekbone, red where Will pressed him to the table, and Will finds his eyes return and linger on it each time he drags them away.

It could easily be more, because neither of them have control, not really. Hannibal only thinks he does, and Will has no illusions left.

“I need to go. I have to let the dogs out.” He’s probably over the limit already from the wine, and he shouldn’t be driving, but he’s risking a lot more than his licence these days, and he’ll risk more if he waits for a cab.

There’s a flash of disappointment scratching at Will’s empathy before Hannibal’s expression settles into neutrality. “Your commitment to your charges is admirable.”

More tendrils of guilt dragging through his gut, because Hannibal _cares_ if he stays, and something inside Will tilts with the knowledge. “It’s more a necessary practicality,” he admits with a smile. “Coming home gets unpleasant if I leave them too long.”

Hannibal smiles then too, his lips softening, his shoulders loose beneath the fine cotton. “I’ll get your coat.” Will follows him through to the hallway, Hannibal’s dusky eyes settling back on him as he takes the coat from the closet and offers it. Will shrugs himself into the arms, wrapping himself in warmth; the blast of air is icy over his face when Hannibal opens the door for him. 

He shivers against it, hunching his shoulders, and moves to leave, but Hannibal stops him with a hand gentle on his sleeve. “Your urges are beautiful, Will, all of them. You should embrace their vibrancy, learn to paint with every colour in your palette.”

The proximity and intensity of him is magnetic, and Will reaches to Hannibal’s throat, strokes his fingers lightly over his skin. There are no bruises, not there, but if he hadn’t snatched his hand away, there would have been. “If I splashed my rainbow across the whole sky, I might bury you at its end.”

There’s no temptation to tighten now; the touch is enough. He’s gratified and mellow after the sex, and he recognises his own urge to kill and knows it will be back, and there’s no fear or horror dragging in that wake, only truth.

And Hannibal might see it, because he smiles and leans in, brushing a brief kiss over Will’s cheek, close against the edge of his lips. 

Will breathes, with Hannibal’s stubble rough beneath his palm and his breath warm on his skin, and he holds himself and doesn’t turn to meet him. 

Hannibal’s still smiling when he draws back, eyes dark in the dim light of the hallway. “If that’s what you truly need, then you will.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s late when he gets back to Wolf Trap, too late to call Jack about the museum and risk waking Bella. The traffic’s sparse this time of night, but the weather and his questionable sobriety slowed him.

There are tyre tracks in his driveway, only lightly snow covered, much clearer than his own from this morning. Two sets, as someone found a dark and empty house and then left again. He checks his phone in his pocket, still charged, and there are no messages.

He wonders who came, and why they didn’t call.

He doesn’t wonder for long; he lets the dogs out, and pours himself a whiskey, his mind tangled with other thoughts, vigorous and vivid, thoughts far more potent than tyre tracks in the snow. Thoughts that mill as restless as his dogs, tracking back and forth across the expanse of white, scenting for opportunity and wary of disaster, and he’s just as unsure which one he’s on the path to.

He leans on the railing, watching sweeping noses and twitching ears, and he sips his drink, feeling the burn of it in his throat while the air bites at his fingers. 

He whistles them back indoors, and readies himself for another night of broken sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I’m fully committed to AU land now. I cheated with the timeline a bit too – in the episode, Margot’s first visit to Will’s house took place the evening after Jack and Will talked to Randall at the museum, not before, but dramatically this worked better.
> 
> I'm [here on tumblr if you want to stop by or chat.](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/). Tumblr post [is here](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/post/168291014089/twisted-wires-tiggymalvern-hannibal-tv) if anyone feels like spreading the porn.


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